


Teethmarks

by ofgodsandmonsters



Category: Sharp Objects (TV)
Genre: Crying, Cuddling, Cunnilingus, Drugged Sex, F/F, Forced Orgasm, Gaslighting, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Underage Aggressor, Unreliable Narrator, Violent Fantasies, rapist in love with victim, rapist pov, references to past self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25049374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofgodsandmonsters/pseuds/ofgodsandmonsters
Summary: All Amma wants is for Camille to love her, as much as she loves her.
Relationships: Amma Crellin/Camille Preaker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Teethmarks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



> Set post canon, but before Camille discovers the truth. Amma's age is unspecified, mainly because I could not figure out how old Eliza Scanlen was meant to be playing. I imagine her about fifteen, but go with what you want. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Camille doesn’t like to be touched that often, not the way Amma likes to touch; she stiffens when Amma holds her, when she wraps her arms around her, her shoulders hunching. She'll hug Amma back, even lean in, but Amma feels like she is being held at arm’s length. Camille doesn’t hug like Mama did, all-encompassing, and that’s supposed to be a good thing, <i>we're not doing it like Mama did</i>, but she misses it. 

All Amma wants is to feel like Camille loves her as much as she loves her. 

Camille flinches away sometimes, as if Amma’s soft fingers on the small of her back causes her physical pain. As if Amma is doing something wrong, when she slides her hand up her wrist, up her forearm, looking for scars.

"Amma," Camille says, pulling her hand away from her. She's calm, voice steady but-

Camille has these eyes. Big wide animal eyes. Like a deer or a watchful cat, about to flee.

Amma knows those eyes. That wide eyed horror. That look of disbelief. 

She's seen it on Jodes and Kelsey before. Ann Nash and Natalie Keene. 

“Not there. C’mon,” she says, like it’s self-explanatory, like it’s supposed to mean something to her. Then, softer, sighing it out, _please._

Amma could throw a fit here, the way she always did with Adora. She used to relish screaming and kicking and fighting, so Mama would wrap her arms around her and shush her and calm her down. 

_Grow up, Amma_ , Camille told her when Amma tried that, and let her scream it out until her throat burned. It’s not the same.

It’s not _fair._

  
  
  
  
  


  
  


Amma drugs her. 

Amma still has a stash of drugs, molly and xanny for play time with the girls, and it’s easy to crumble one up and slip it into Camille’s Evian bottle. Camille thought she was swiping it to drink it herself, _tut-tuting_ her, telling her she’s not supposed to be drinking, that she's her guardian now (you _were cooler when you weren’t,_ Amma tells her, rolling her eyes).

(Mama used to slip her stuff too; stuff that Amma had no idea what it was, just that it tasted nasty)

Camille passes out quick. Almost too quick. Amma wonders if she gave her too much. She doesn’t want her to _die._ She was hoping Camille would be fun for awhile at least, before falling asleep, like that time they kissed at the party, grinning at Camille’s wide-eyed shock. 

“Cami?” She asks, patting her cheek lightly. No response. “Fuck.” 

Amma leans down and places her head on her chest, positioning herself above Camille, stretching over her like a content cat. Head over her chest, Amma can hear her heartbeat, slow but steady and strong and consistent. Not dead. 

Amma lets out a sigh of relief. Now for...the hard part? The fun part?

Camille is easy to undress. Amma slips off her sweater first, pulling it over her arms, loose and pliant. Even down to her bra, the bursts and strips of skin are tantalizing, all the ragged raised up flesh, from arms and shoulders and chest and belly. Scars everywhere. RUINED etched under her arm. FIX on her forearm. Everywhere. 

Amma carefully removes the bar, exposing her breasts, and the mess of scar tissue that covered all that skin. Even Camille's tits weren't unscathed; somehow, Camille carved words both upside down and right side up, words she could read if she looked down and words she’d have to stare at a mirror for—NAG and SWEET and HARD. Only her pink nipples, and the dark ring of flesh around it remained fully intact. 

Her sister’s body is a lexicon of agony. It's the most beautiful thing Amma's ever seen.

The _C for Camille_ scar on Amma's body is mostly faded now, hardly visible. Amma wants to recarve it again and show it to Camille, as a gift. She wants _Camille_ to carve it on her, show her how she did this to herself. Camille would freak out, Amma knows, but she just wants to show Camille how much she loves her, loves her more than Mama, loves her as much as she can love anyone in the world. 

Amma reaches out to cup her breast in her hand, waiting for Camille to wake up. She makes a soft hum noise, like a vibration under her flesh, but otherwise doesn’t stir. Amma lets out a small gasp, excited. 

“You’re so pretty sis,” she says out loud. 

She uses both hands now, massaging and rubbing the rough, abrasive skin, tracing the words Camille carved on herself. Camille’s nipples stiffen under her touch. It’s a desperately arousing sight, hard pretty nipple and ruined skin around it, that Amma feels deep in her belly, a flood of warmth. SLUT is hot under her nails, under her right tit, tracing the letters with her thumb. She wonders how she got this, what prompted it, how she did it.

On a whim, Amma leans down and runs her tongue over the scars, tracing each word until they're all wet. She thumbs a nipple and then closes her mouth over it, sucking it between her lips, tonguing it and nipping at it. She pulls back and bites the underside of her breast, the flesh supple in her mouth. Amma moans into her skin and spreads her legs over Camille’s hips, rocking into her. 

Camille does not wake up. 

“Holy shit,” Amma says, pulling back. She stares at her handiwork, topless sister and her gleaming, spit-shined tits. 

She just wanted to be close but Amma decides she wants it all; the story and the flesh under her tongue. _Tell me everything._

She runs her tongue all over Camille’s body. WRONG is on her sternum. RIP down below, on her hip. Amma isn’t sure if it means a tear, ripping apart, ripped apart, or Rest In Peace. She bites down on the word, thinking of her dead big sister Marian; she leaves teeth marks on her, and still Camille doesn’t wake.

FUCK U is on her belly, in messy and ugly chicken scratch. She wonders how long it took to carve. Maybe Camille will let her recarve some of these words for her, the more faded ones. She wants to see her blood, their blood, shared blood. The thought of it drives her a little crazy. 

Further down her body, it goes; BITCH. WRETCHED. CHERRY. She pulls down her pants, down the length of her legs, until they’re all the way off and on the ground. It’s shockingly easy. Camille doesn’t stir. 

With her hands on Camille's thighs, rubbing them over multiple sets of words, she pushes them open, and pulls off her underwear. Even knocked out cold, Camille's cunt is sopping wet, shiny with fluids, enough to take Amma’s breath away. She's not quite bare, not baby smooth, but the hair on her cunt looks thin enough, like she trimmed it recently. Amma strokes it curiously; she and her girlfriends shaved each other as a rite of passage, trying to get rid of it entirely. Camille makes bush look not so bad. 

Carefully, Amma runs a finger up and down her swollen cunt. No response. That’s a little disappointing. She shouldn’t have drugged her so hard. She wants Camille to wake up and play with her. 

Instead, she spreads her cunt lips with two fingers, and there’s her clit, peeking out under the hood, small and dark red, compared to the pink of the rest of Camille’s cunt. She rubs her thumb over it and Camille shivers, slightly. She can see goosepimples pebble along her skin and her cunt throbs against her fingers. 

“Wow,” Amma says to herself, shifting, trying to get comfortable, spreading her legs a little wider. She wants to straddle Camille’s thigh, rub her cunt all over her. 

(When Ann Nash died under her hands, her cunt fluttered. When she pulled her teeth out, she got so wet, it ran down her thighs, underwear ruined, pussy throbbing for murder and pain)

Camille, naked and helpless, sparks the same sort of frisson in desire all over her, rendering Amma breathless; Amma doesn't want to murder Camille—the opposite in fact, she wants to keep her forever—but she’d like to hurt her, a little. Just to see the look in her eyes, see if her cunt throbs for that as well. 

She wants to leave a bloody A for Amma on her body. A for ALWAYS on her back. 

Amma is fair; she'd put the knife in Camille’s hand after, and hold out her arm, _now you do me_. _C for Camille._

This close, Camille’s cunt smells ripe and musky in her nose. Amma leans down, close enough to push her nose against her clit and drags her tongue against her folds. She's never done this before but the taste isn't bad, heavy, but good, briny and slick.

Amma hears a tiny whimper escape Camille. It was soft and small, like a noise escaping her body, like air leaving her. 

That should stop her. _I’m about to be caught._ But instead, it just sets her aflame, spurs her on further. 

She drags her tongue across her folds again and again, not entirely sure what to do with it. She wraps her mouth around her clit, tonguing the small nub, sucking a little too hard. She wants to know how Camille’s body feels around her, how slick and tight she'd be, or if she'd different than her own cunt. Before Amma can think, she pushes one, then two fingers inside her—they go in easy, used to the intrusion, Camille’s clenching tightly around her, sucking her fingers in. 

A moan leaves Amma's throat at how it feels, to be inside her. Amma didn’t think it’d _feel_ this good, that she’d get to do all this. Her own cunt is throbbing and aching between her legs; she thinks that must be how Camille feels right now, aching, ready to go. She wants to see her fall apart under her. 

Amma wants to hear her scream. It’s a shame she can’t right now. 

When Camille's orgasm hits, Amma swears she can feel it herself in her own body. Camille’s body, the delicate folds, her soft clit, _pulses_ in her mouth, on her tongue, through her. Camille’s body arches in her sleep, thighs going tight, body like a bow. Amma lets out a moan against Camille’s skin, unable to stop herself, drunk on Camille’s orgasm; she can feel the effects of it in her, her body heavy and languid and loose, closing her own thighs to rub them together. Her own cunt is throbbing and fluttering and twitching with how good it feels. 

Amma pulls away, about to shove her hand in her pajama pants and get herself off, and she looks down and finds Camille—very groggy, eyes half lidded—staring up at her. 

“Amma?” Camille slurs. The look in Camille’s eyes is dark and hazy, like she’s having trouble focusing. “Amma, what are you doing?” 

“Shush,” Amma says, placing her index finger on Camille’s lips. Camille’s mouth opens up instinctively, frowning, visibly confused. Amma realizes it was the finger she shoved inside her. “Go back to sleep.”

“Amma,” Camille drawls out. Amma likes her name in her mouth like that. She wants to hear it again later. 

“Sleep with me,” Amma demands. She pulls the blankets over them, and wraps an arm around Camille, spooning her, pressing tightly enough to taste her hair in her mouth. Amma burrows closer to her sister, clinging like a koala, and shuts her eyes.

She can hear Camille breathing—hard, heavy pants, waking up a bit more—and she braces herself for Camille to get out of bed and pull herself away. But eventually, her body stills, tension going out of it.

When she wakes up, Amma will tell her they're made for each other. That Camille likes pain and agony, made to bleed, and Amma can give her whatever she wants. She only wants one thing in return. 

Eventually, she can feel her sister’s body go slack with sleep and Amma follows with her. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Amma wakes up violently, hands on her shoulders, shaking her awake. Camille is hovering over her, hands curled into claws as she grabs her tightly. Amma thinks she’s going to leave indent marks on her and the idea makes her heart jump start with dizzying excitement. 

She’s shirtless, bra put back on, and Amma’s eyes drift down over her body. There’s an imprint of teeth marks down on her hip. It makes Amma’s heart sing. 

“Yeah, Camille?” She says, grinning at her, giddy and breathless. 

“Amma,” Camille hisses between her teeth. Her jaw is tight. Her eyes are red, like she’d been crying. “Amma, what did you do?”

Camille has covered her legs up with underwear, and not much else. She reaches over for a shirt, shoving it over her body, trying to stretch it past her thighs but it's still too revealing.

Amma pouts. “I...I wanted to be with you,” she says. 

“Amma, you can’t do that!” Camille shouts at her. “I’m your big sister, I’m supposed to look out for you—”

“We’re made for each other,” Amma starts and Camille lets out a terrifying shriek that steals anything else Amma was going to say, shocked mute. 

“You can’t,” Camille says, angry now, holding her down on the bed. “You can’t touch me like that, do you understand?” 

Amma doesn’t know what to do, heart pounding in her chest, breaths coming in heavy and hard. The giddy high she was feeling has collapsed. It’s like she’s too connected to Camille’s feelings and all the sudden, she bursts into sobs. Loud, shoulder-wracking wails, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Camille goes blurry in her vision. 

“Amma!” Camille gasps out and immediately, she wraps her arms around her, and holds her like Amma wants her to, pressing Amma against her body. Amma keeps crying, unable to stop herself. 

It’s not _entirely_ fake crying. She didn’t know what to do in the face of Camille’s anger. It was either cry or scream or stab.

“I didn’t know,” she says, which _is_ completely untrue. “I thought it was okay. We kissed before, you know.” 

Camille shudders against her. "You shouldn't have done that," she says, but she wraps her arms tighter around Amma. She doesn't tell Amma no. 

“I’m sorry,” Camille apologizes eventually. There’s a pause, like she’s waiting, a reply back, but Amma isn’t sorry. Amma isn’t sorry at all. 

“I just wanna be with you,” she says in between sobs, and her sister strokes her hair and doesn’t say anything else. 


End file.
